Hot Day
by KarotsaMused
Summary: It's too hot to think too much...


A/N: Me being...well...me. Probably OOC but gimme a break - I haven't had the chance to write in a while.   
  
Disclaimer: Saiyuki isn't mine. *sniffle*  
  
Warnings: Language, minor sexual references, ooc-ness.  
  
Welcome to Gojyo's brain on a hot day. Was originally going to be a completely different fic but it came out like this. Inspired by Dave Matthews Band's "Crash" - not just the song, but the whole album. Don't ask. ^.^  
  
***  
  
Bored again. It's the same routine over and over, just driving and stopping, sleeping, fighting, and driving again. And not the good sort of fights either. Just those frustrating bickering sessions over stupid things ended by a blow from an outsider. Condemning me for wanting a little release. It's been a while since I've been in a really good fight. Hell, I'd even take an all-out brawl, a tangle of sharp elbows and hard fists, boots and eye-gouging all fair game. Sometimes I hate coming out of things so pretty and clean.  
  
Pretty. That's a relative word, like nice or good. Pretty can mean very, like nice can mean precise and good can mean any number of words from unspoiled (in reference to the quality of questionable food stores) to pleasurable. And I can't even begin to talk about pleasure.  
  
I'd be the first to know, wouldn't I? Or so it's thought. But what about the pleasure in connecting the flat of your fist with someone's jaw so hard you -feel- their teeth come loose as your knuckles pop? Or the pleasure that comes from downing too much sake and the whole fucking -world- is an orgy of swimming figures and overpowering sensation? And then there're the bittersweet bouts of self-gratification when women are just too much of a bother to go out and seduce, those nights (and, admittedly, afternoons and mornings) when the game's not worth playing.   
  
Quick, Satan, lick a lamppost. Sha Gojyo has days when he doesn't feel like playing the game, walking the walk, and sticking some pretty thing in a bed he's seeing for the first and last time in his life. And, infrequent though they are, today's one of them.   
  
Could be the weather. Ch. That argument holds no sway with two thirds of the guys around me and melancholy's not that contagious. Those two are what you'd call 'fair weather friends' in a funny way. But less like friends with each other and more like sun worshippers when it comes to suppressing bad memories. But they're not that weak, they just get a little moody. Otherwise it'd be like me avoiding anything reflective for the rest of my life. That's just funny.  
  
Could be them. One, both, all three if you want to count the saru. He affects me beyond minor annoyance. The bit that's really got my panties twisted is that I -like- the kid enough not to want to kill him. Just maim him a bit. Doesn't remind me of anyone I used to know or anything like that, but he's got a familiarity. They all do, this weird link that I once got drunk enough to try to comprehend and ended up making the next day's hangover worse. We're stuck together, out in the middle of innumerable nowheres and there's not a thing I could do about it now.  
  
I'm thinking as I'm walking, talking silently to myself and too lazy to grip the cigarette with my teeth so it clings to my bottom lip instead. The filter just kind of sticks and I know it'll take a layer of skin when I peel it off. Or I could just let it burn me. Burning like the sun, the damn' unrelenting ball of hot air that the saru relates to the monk on days when he feels romantic. It's too hot to walk, even, come to think of it. And almost too hot to even think that. Too hot, certainly, to return the glances this one fruit-seller's giving me.  
  
Maybe not. She's cute in that perky way, with tits like the oranges she's got for sale and emphatic hands. Emphatic meaning she can't keep from touching her face, rearranging the display, straightening her shirt. And, fortune be faithful, she's standing in the shade.  
  
"Afternoon," I say, getting straight to the point and sliding into the cool and dark beside her. I can feel heat radiating off of me, caught in my clothes.  
  
Talking to her is just listening after a good verbal prod. And the shade is worth it, especially because I don't have to work. She's got the most fantastic green eyes, faceted and sparkling. Not that swamp-water green some girls have with the brown around the outside, but life green, leaf green. I see a lot of swamp eyes, but only one other pair so clear. She's got hers trained on me, energetic and confident, playful, obviously enjoying my attention. I enjoy her presence, building my energy from her own and cooling in the shade, finding today's not such a bad day for flirting after all.  
  
She's the nineteen-year-old daughter of the merchant who's taken ill and in his place, she's got two younger brothers, she's addicted to poker and she once heard redheads are good lovers and would I be willing to prove her right sometime? At least, that's what I managed to pick up. I hold up a hand.  
  
"Umeko-chan," I say softly, "believing rumors is bad for you." Before the brightness of her face fades, the charm returns full-blast. I stroll away with her contact information and half want to follow up. She was gorgeous, the closer I got to her, not classic but striking in enough of the right ways. Striking in disturbing ways.  
  
I don't think I'm in the mood to deal with her energy. I wasn't able to handle the chatterbox this morning, and I've already mentioned my attachment to the saru. She, or realistically, I would never stand a chance. I don't think I'm in the mood to deal with the scent of her. She smells like hot skin and old fabric. That wasn't so bad except the leather of her boots and the streaks of sunlight in her hair brought an extra tang of familiarity I can't fraternize with. And her eyes were so sweet and green. I wonder if Hakkai's eyes were so sweet before he was disillusioned?  
  
I'm afraid I might slur the wrong name to her tonight, and then where would I be?  
  
I rub the dying cigarette out beneath my foot and Umeko's scrap of paper becomes a spitwad just because I need something for my mouth to do. It leaves a sour pocket in the side of my cheek that the skin cringes from. I spit the pulp away and plunge my tongue into the bitterness by my molars and shiver. It's too hot for this. 


End file.
